


Year 2015/2016

by Luna_Hart



Series: Snapshots [9]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bittersweet, Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Flashbacks, HYDRA Husbands, Hurt/Comfort, Hydra (Marvel), Imprisonment, M/M, Memories, Photography, SHIELD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-10
Updated: 2017-10-02
Packaged: 2018-12-25 21:43:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12044880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luna_Hart/pseuds/Luna_Hart
Summary: A collection of moments in the lives of Brock Rumlow and Jack Rollings:When SHIELD found them. When Jack remembered better times. When Captain America paid a visit to the Raft.





	1. May, 2015

  
It was a warm day in May as Jack made his way back from the grocery store, loaded down with supplies for the next week. It had been almost a full year since he and Brock had found each other at the cabin. In the time since James left, there had not been a single whisper from either HYDRA or SHIELD anywhere near Colorado. That didn’t mean their either of them had let their guard slip though. So when Jack felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up as he made his way across the parking lot, he didn’t ignore it. Ignoring those kind of instincts would get you killed.

He did a quick scan of the parking lot, seeing a black SUV parked conspicuously in one far corner. No one in town drove anything like that. He kept his gate even as he dug is cellphone out of his pocket. He dialled the number by heart and held it to his ear. Jack kept walking as the phone rang twice, not stopping as he heard footsteps approaching rapidly from behind him. It rang once more before Brock answered, his voice rough as he said hello, meaning that Jack had probably woken him from a nap. Jack heaved a sigh of relief as more footsteps join the first. A familiar voice somewhere behind him yelled out his name. “Rollins!” He dropped the groceries, reaching for the gun tucked into the waistband of his jeans.

“Jackie?” Brock whispered in his ear. Jack took a breath. “Run,” he said calmly as a hand grabbed his wrist before he could draw. A boot kicked out his knees from under him and he was shoved face first down onto the hot cement.

 

 


	2. May, 2015: One Week Earlier

Steve Rogers was beyond frustrated. In fact, he was livid. It had been over a year since Brock Rumlow had escaped the hospital facility where he had lain in a coma, suffering from severe burns and contusions to the entire left side of his body. Doctors said it would be a miracle if he even survived, let alone walked again, so how he had been able to take out his guards during a transfer and then just vanish was beyond comprehension.

After Natasha’s surprising run in with him during a completely separate mission, they had managed to follow a trail for a good while before it went cold again. Natasha didn't know who had incapacitated her, but it was a good bet that where Brock Rumlow was, Jack Rollins wasn’t far behind.

It took a while, but they finally caught another break at the boarder of New Mexico, with security footage from a small roadside diner in the middle of nowhere. Steve had been confused by the build of the other man sitting with Rumlow, too small for Rollins, until he noticed the long hair sticking out from under the baseball cap.

It had taken all his self control, and Natasha’s calming hand on his shoulder, to keep from flipping the table then and there when Rumlow grabbed Bucky and then followed him out when the younger man had fled. There were no cameras outside so Steve could only imagine the worst. Natasha had done her best to calm him down, telling him that they would keep looking and would monitor all the regular channels closely. That they would find them. Sam assured the same, but it did little to put Steve’s mind at ease.

After everything Rumlow had done, working for HYDRA, trying to kill Steve and his friends, and helping enslave and brainwash his best friend, the man needed to be brought to justice. He had to pay for his crimes. And now this on top of everything. Rumlow must be coercing Bucky. He had to be. It was the only explanation Steve was willing to entertain.

Rumlow deserved to pay for his crimes to be sure, but Steve’s increasing obsession was starting to worry his friends, particularly Natasha and Sam. Sam had seen the calming, almost comforting hand Rumlow had placed on Bucky’s own when he started freaking out and he wasn’t sure if the whole thing was as black and white as Steve seemed to think. So when Natasha approached Sam and told him that she had found Brock’s old apartment, he readily agreed to check it out without Steve.

 

 

Natasha and Sam entered an old-style brick building with an elderly doorman and an out-of-order elevator. They climbed up to the apartment and Natasha pulled out her lock picks. “So have you figured out what we’re going to tell Steve about our little field trip here?” Sam commented softly as Natasha navigated the lock with ease. “I suppose it will depend on what we find,” she replied as the locked finally clicked open.

Just as she opened the door, a woman in her seventies holding the leash of a small Spaniel exited her apartment across the hall. “Oh,” She explained, eyeing them with a suspicion. “Hi there,” Sam said calmly as Natasha subtly slide her lock picks into her pocket. “We’re friends of Rum — uh, of Brock’s, he asked us to….to keep an eye on things while he's…on vacation.” Out of the corner of his eye he saw Natasha roll her eyes.

“Oh,” the woman said again. Then she smiled. “Isn’t that nice. I haven’t seen them in quite a while. Those two work so much, I’m glad they're getting a break. They are the best neighbours I can remember ever having. Well, good day.” With one last smile, she led her Spaniel down the hallway and around the corner.

Sam shot Natasha a look out of the corner of his eye. “They?” He asked with a raised eyebrow. “Yeah, I caught that too.” she replied, turning back to the door. “Did Rumlow have a girlfriend?” Sam wondered. “Not that I know of,” she said but something in her cadence made Sam wonder if she was holding something back. “Well I guess we’re about to find out,” Sam said simply and pushed the door open.

  
Immediately inside, Natasha and Sam found themselves in a bright, open foyer. A shoe rack revealed a collection of shoes in what looked like two different sizes, but both clearly men’s styles. “Roommate maybe?” Sam said, pointing to the shoes. Natasha didn't comment as they stepped further into the apartment.

The living room lay before them, open and inviting with warm wooden floors and floor-to-ceiling windows over-looking the city. Two large couches and a thick coffee table sat around a flatscreen TV. The wall opposite held two massive bookshelves stuffed to the brim. The galley style kitchen sat to the right hand side, tidy and clean with the wide counter doubling as a breakfast bar. Random recipes and magnets scattered the fridge, with mundane notes like _‘Buy milk,_ ’ and _‘Call your sister for her birthday on Friday.’_

“Not exactly what I was expecting,” Sam muttered to himself, eyeing a note that read _‘You use the last of the toothpaste, you buy another tube asshole.’_ He glanced back through the apartment, finding Natasha ducking into a door off the side of the living room.

Sam wandered over to the bookshelves. He glanced to an extra large dart board filled with throwing stars and knives hanging in-between the shelves. Someone’s aim had been a bit off, as a small knife no bigger than his index finger stuck out of the spine of Fahrenheit 451.  
He pointed, turning to Natasha who was returning from the bedroom. “That is more like what I was expecting.” Natasha smirked. “Find anything?” He asked.

“Nothing that would help,” Natasha replied, wondering over to look through the bookshelf herself. She scanned the shelves, lingering on the one that held a bunch of antique looking cameras. Next to it a framed photo of a woman standing at a stove. Her hair struggled to escape its pins, and she stirred a pot of something. The edges of the photo were age-worn and a little stained. “In-suite bathroom has two toothbrushes, two razors. Two different sizes of mens clothing in the closet.”

“So what, evil double agent had a boyfriend?” Sam said incredulously. Natasha only shrugged. The two continued down the hallway. They peaked into what would have been the second bedroom, which had been turned into a home gym. Another door revealed a second bathroom, this one furnished with a massive shower that could have fit three of Sam comfortably. Finally they came to a third door, which was closed.

“Torture dungeon, the portable HYDRA home addition?” Sam joked as Natasha opened the door and flicked on the lights. Whatever they were expecting to find, a photography dark room wasn't it, illuminated by red light. “Whoah,” Sam said, looking around the room. “I didn’t know people still did this.” To the left sat a long table filled with shallow trays with other various equipment stacked and hanging neatly beside. Dozens of photos hung neatly along the opposite wall.

Sam wandered the room, eyes scanning the hanging photos. Local architecture, wildlife, and people populated the images in vintage-looking colour and black-and-white; sunrise over the Triskelion, a woman and her child playing in a park, a pigeon dragging a piece of pizza, a soldier standing to attention. Sam had to admit, they were beautiful.

“Rumlow certainly has an eye,” Sam commented. “I don’t think they're his,” Natasha replied from the other side of the room where she was leafing through a large photo binder. Sam wandered over and peaked over her shoulder.

The album was a collection of black-and-white photos, all featuring one very familiar looking dark haired man.

Rumlow boxing, sweat flying as his fist connected with the bag. Rumlow lying in bed fast asleep, the sheets strategically hiding and hinting at the same time. Rumlow on the patio, a cigarette dangling from his lips and smoke curling from his nostrils. Rumlow fresh from a shower, wearing nothing but a fluffy towel and looking younger than Sam had ever seen him.

Rumlow sitting in profile on the couch with a small arsenal spread out in front of him on the covered coffee table, a 9mm in his hands. Rumlow with his head thrown back, white teeth showing as he laughed. Rumlow sitting in the back of a V-22 Osprey aircraft, dressing in full STRIKE gear with his rifle beside him, head hanging low in exhaustion.

Natasha turned the page, prompting raised eyebrows from both of them. The man in the photo had his back to the camera, stirring something in a pan on the stove. Besides the dishrag over his shoulder and the apron tied neatly around his waist, the man hadn't a scrape of fabric on his body, bare ass fully exposed for the camera.

Sam frowned. After seeing all these photos, he could tell that the man’s physique in this one was all wrong for Rumlow. This man was noticeably taller and broader in the shoulders. The hair was too long. Something about him looked vaguely familiar but Sam couldn't place it. Sam spared a glance at Natasha but she was staring intently at the photo, a look on her face like she had finally figured out the last piece to some puzzle.

“You know him?” Sam asked, pointing to the naked chef. Natasha said nothing. She turned to the next page, but there weren't any more photos. “Well, looks like we won’t have to tell Steve anything after all,” Sam sighed as they left the room. “There’s nothing here that would be of any help finding them.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Natasha murmur behind him. He turned to find her standing in the doorway to the dark room, a couple photographs in her hands. She flipped the first one over to show him. It was another photo of Rumlow, leaning against a black Jeep Wrangler. His arms were crossed and dark aviators hid his eyes from the bright sun. Behind him an impressive mountain range spanned far into the distance, the tops dusted white with snow. “We can get someone to identify that mountain range.”

“How would that possibly help us?” Sam questioned, still not understanding.

“Because,” Natasha said as she flipped over the second photo. It was Rumlow again, bare chested, axe raised over his head as he chopped wood. Behind him sat a cozy-looking log cabin, with the same mountain ranges just barely visible in the distance.

“I’ll bet you anything that this is where they are.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: I wrote this as a one-shot before ever starting this series. This was what actually inspired the whole thing. So many of the stories were based off the random photos I came up with for this series. As it all evolved, I thought it would be nice to include this one-shot in it.


	3. May, 2015

“Jackie?” Brock whispered, hearing someone shout Jack’s last name. Something cold coiled around his chest and squeezed as he heard Jack take a breath. “Run,” was all the man said before there was more shouting, the sounds of a scuffle, and then the line went dead. Brock stood frozen, phone still clutched to his ear.

“Fuck,” he breathed and sprung into action all at once. Lady whined at the flurry of activity as he threw things in bags and yanked their weapons cache from under the bed. He was halfway through getting everything when he froze, the reality of everything fully crashing in on him.

When the two black SUVs roared up the drive, Brock was sitting calmly on the front step, his SIG clutched loosely in his hand. The doors opened and Brock took a breath. Moment of truth. HYDRA or SHIELD. A familiar blonde head revealed itself from the passenger side door and Steve Rogers made his way halfway up the walk. He was dressed in civilian clothes but with his shield on his arm.

“Cap,” Brock said calmly. The man didn’t reply, his eyes hard and giving nothing away. He looked pissed. More people stepped out of the vehicles. Brock recognized the same Pretty Boy he had fought with on the Triskelion. Two nameless agents stepped out of the second SUV, accompanied by Barton. Hawkeye being here probably meant Romanoff was probably not far behind. A beat later and a shock of red hair from the driver’s door of the first vehicle confirmed his suspicions. “Romanoff,” Brock called out, not taking his eyes off Rogers. “How’s the head?”

“Rumlow,” she said coolly, gun trained on him over the car door. “How about you drop that gun?”

“Naw,” Brock drawled. “I’m good.”

“Enough,” Rogers interrupted, eyes sparking with barely controlled rage. “Where is he, Rumlow? Where’s Bucky?” Brock said nothing, playing confused. He probably shouldn't be baiting Rogers, but he just couldn't help it. It was so easy to rile the man up. “James Buchanan Barnes,” Rogers snapped, the first crack appearing in his calm exterior. “The Winter Soldier. I saw the security footage at the diner. I know he was with you. Where is he?”

“He’s not here,” Brock said calmly. “You’re lying,” Rogers growled. “Why would I lie?” Brock said, already feeling a little exasperated. Rogers always had that affect on him. “I don't know,” Rogers replied stiffly. “Why would you betray SHIELD? Betray us?” Brock shook his head with a chuckle. “I told you it wasn’t personal.”

“Then what?” Rogers exclaimed. “Explain it to me because I don’t get it.” Brock just shook his head again. He wasn’t about to explain something to Rogers he hadn’t even been able to properly explain to Jack. His silence only seemed to anger the man further. “I trusted you,” Rogers snarled. “I thought you were a good man.” Brock huffed a laugh. “I’m not a good man,” he scoffed. “You can’t do what we do and still be a good person. Not even you, Cap.” Even from this distance he could see Rogers stiffen. “I help people," he said, narrowing his eyes. "I protect them from people like you.”

“People like me,” Brock chuckled, getting to his feet. He moved slowly and obviously, not feeling like getting shot just yet. “We’re no different. Sure, you take someone out in the name of saving the good ones but the thing is, Cap, you get to decide who the good ones are. You choose whose worth saving.”

“I don’t choose.”

“Don’t be naive,” Brock snapped. He felt Romanoff and the others bristle at his tone and posture. “I am nothing like you,” Rogers said stiffly. “Give it time,” Brock said softly. He could hear Lady whining behind the door. He hadn’t wanted her to get in the way, in case things turned ugly.

“Where is Bucky?” Steve asked again, his hands clenched into fists. “I don’t know,” Brock said slowly and clearly. “It’s over, Rumlow,” Steve snapped. “There’s nowhere to go. Just tell me. Please.” The anguish in his eyes almost swayed Brock. Hadn’t he tried to convince the kid to seek out Rogers anyways? It was the least he could do, for James’ sake if not for Rogers.

He opened his mouth as the doors to the second SUV opened and the two nameless agents pulled Jack out and marched him into the open. Brock’s stomach lurched as they kicked him down to his knees. Jack’s hands were cuffed and Brock inhaled sharply as his eyes caught sight of the split lip and bruised cheek Jack was sporting.

“Fuck you, Cap,” he growled, all thoughts of helping the blonde man erased from his mind. He could almost feel Romanoff’s finger tighten around the trigger. Rogers shifted his stance ever so slightly, bringing his shield more in front of him. Brock stared the blonde man down, ignoring the looks of barely contained panic Jack was sending his way. “Brock—,” he heard Jack begin, but his voice cut off as one of the agents cuffed him across the head. Brock clenched his jaw and his grip tightened on his SIG. “Fuck you,” he spat.

 

 

 

  
Jack sat in the back of the SUV, hands cuffed in front of him as some nameless agent drove through and out of Lake City. Jack could feel the bruise blossoming on his cheek where the same agent had taken offence to his face. Barton sat in the passenger seat, lounging back as if he had no care in the world. Jack really wished he could kick him. The man who sat beside him looked very familiar. It took him a while to place the face.

“You’re the Fly Boy from the Washington monument, aren’t you?” he asked. The man didn’t look at him, just clenched his jaw. “I’ll take that as a yes,” Jack chuckled. He leaned back, planting a boot square in the back of the driver’s seat. He could see the agent glowering at him in the rearview. “Been a while. You’ve done well for yourself.”

“I’ve got nothing to say to you, man,” the man said stiffly. Jack chuckled again. “Oh, don’t be like that,” he started but the other man interrupted. “Like what? You tried to kill me and my friends. Twice.” Jack just shrugged. “Didn’t though,” he said mildly. “Not for lack of trying, from what I heard,” Barton said, adding his unwanted two cents from the front seat. “Shut up, Barton,” Jack and the other man said in unison.

Before Jack could add anything else, the agent was pulling off the main road, following the other SUV down a bumpy back road. The same bumpy back road that would eventually lead to the cabin. Jack’s blood ran cold and he felt the man’s eyes on him. Sam. That’s what it was. The man’s name was Sam.

“Oh, you didn’t think we knew about your little safe house huh,” Sam said with a self-satisfied air. Jack didn’t even bother to grace that comment with a response. It didn’t matter how they knew about the cabin. All that mattered is that they did. He was just thankful that he had been able to warn Brock in time. With any luck, he’d already be long gone.

As the SUV’s pulled up in front of the cabin, Jack stifled a groan. The stupid bastard was just sitting on the front porch, gun in hand. Jack bit his lip to keep from cursing out loud as everyone loaded out of the vehicles. He tasted blood, having reopened the split lip he had received earlier, but didn't pay it any mind. Brock had had plenty of time to run, but the stupid motherfucker hadn’t. “I’ll kill him,” he muttered under his breath as Brock engaged in a back-and-forth with Rogers. “I’ll fucking kill him myself.”

The conversation continued between the two men, Brock staying the picture of calm while Jack could see Rogers growing more tense by the second. Finally it seemed that nameless agent number one had had enough and wished to move everything along. He pulled open the door and yanked Jack out. He and another agent marched Jack out into the open. A swift kick to the back of his knee sent him to the ground with a grunt.

Jack looked up to Brock, silently willing the other man not to do anything stupid. He could see Romanoff had her sights on him, her finger looking a little itchy on that trigger. Barton looked the picture of calm as always, but Jack had never seen someone with a faster draw. He saw Brock clock his injuries, could see the murder in his eyes. Brock’s hand tightened on his firearm and Jack’s eyes widened in barely contained panic.

“Fuck you, Cap,” Brock growled. Jack moved to stand, but a hand clamped on his shoulder and pushed him back down. He stared pleadingly up at Brock, but the man only had eyes for Rogers. Jack could hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. He was about to watch Brock get shot right in front of him and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do. “Brock—,” he started but was cut off as one of the agents cuffed him across the ear sharply.

He saw Brock bristle. Saw the man’s grip shift on his SIG, his muscles tense. “Fuck you,” Brock spat at Rogers. There was an awful long pause and then Brock tossed the SIG into the dirt. Jack heaved in the breath he hadn’t known he was holding, feeling giddy with relief. He managed to catch Brock’s eye as he was cuffed. The man looked resigned and a little apologetic as he was loaded into the other SUV. Jack’s mind felt numb as he was shoved back into the vehicle.

He watched as they searched the cabin, watched Barton as he brought Lady out on a lead and loaded her into the back of the SUV. She whined and wiggled when she saw Jack, trying to jump over the back of the seat to get to him. “Easy, sweetheart,” he murmured, feeling the other’s eyes on him. “Lie down.” Lady whinged again but did as she was told. He heaved a sigh as the vehicle began the bouncy journey back to the main road. He slumped down in the seat and closed his eyes. He might as well try and get some sleep while he can.

 

  
They drove for a few hours to a private airstrip where a helicopter was waiting for them. Barton stayed behind with Sam who had done nothing but stare daggers at Jack the entire trip. Lady barked and barked as Jack was loaded out of the SUV. She leapt over the seat and managed to dodge the agent’s hands as she bounded up to Jack. She whined and wiggled as he bent to scratch her behind the ears. He glanced up, feeling eyes on him, to see Barton watching him. He met the man’s gaze with a question in his eyes. “Trish Kingsley,” he said. “Works at the VA in DC. She’ll take her.” Barton nodded, for once silent as he picked up the end of Lady’s lead. Jack knew the man had a soft spot for animals, dogs in particular. He gave Lady one final scratch, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Her name’s Lady,” he said softly as an agent yanked him to his feet and marched him towards the helicopter.

He could hear Lady barking behind him. He saw Brock’s pained expression before he hid it behind boredom as Jack was pushed past him and into the seat as far away from the other man as possible in the cramped space. Rogers jumped up front with the pilot as Romanoff and the other agents strapped themselves in. Jack stared out the window as they flew, refusing to entertain all the different scenarios of where they were headed. Eventually, land fell away and gave way to ocean and he stifled a sigh. There was only one place they could possibly be going.

  
The wind whipped furiously as the helicopter touched down on the Raft, SHIELDS maximum security floating prison. It was reserved for the worst of the worst, for enhanced criminals and people SHIELD wanted to make disappear. Jack wasn’t sure if he should be flattered.

More agents joined them upon their arrival and they were marched through the facility with Rogers and Romanoff taking lead. Jack tried to catch Brock’s eye but the man wasn’t looking anywhere but forward. They met with somebody important who lorded over the moment for a touch longer than was strictly kosher before Jack was led in one direction and Brock in another. Jack felt a cold wash of realization sweep over him. This was it. He was never going to see Brock again. He twisted in the agents grip, craning his neck to look back at Brock.

For all that he looked angry, Jack could see the barely contained panic that rolled across Brock’s dark eyes as he struggled against the men who held him. Rogers paused in his conversation with Mr. Important, muscles tense and ready for trouble. Brock lunged forward, getting up in Romanoff’s face, which was the last thing Jack expected him to do. He whispered something in her ear, something that made her start. Her eyes flicked across to Jack briefly before snapping back to Brock. Jack could only wonder at the outcome, wonder what Brock said to cause such a reaction, as the agents wrestled him around the corner and he couldn't see them anymore.

  
Jack didn't fuss throughout the booking process. There wasn’t any point and his guards looked like they were itching for a reason to use those stun batons they carried. Jack knew from personal experience how unpleasant those were. He was searched and then sent to medical where which went by in a blur of tests and needles. They gave him a uniform and took away his clothes and dog tags. The wedding band caused a few raised eyebrows as he wasn’t listed as married in the database.

After being process he was taken into a small room containing a table, two chairs, and a tweedy looking agent who asked him all sorts of questions about SHIELD and HYDRA. Jack fought the urge to roll his eyes whenever the man opened his mouth. He was asked nothing that couldn't be found online, seeing as Romanoff had dumped all of HYDRA’s files onto the internet along with all of SHIELDs. He stayed silent, leaning back in his chair with an menacing air. Eventually the man got frustrated and more than a little nervous and Jack was escorted out by two burly agents.

They were making their way down the hall when the agents suddenly stopped, responding to something over their comms. “Copy,” one of them said in a gruff voice before abruptly turning in the opposite direction, yanking Jack roughly with them. Jack felt more and more uneasy as they lead him further and further away from the main traffic of the Raft. They turned down an empty hallway and Jack wouldn't be all that surprised if they were about to shoot him and dump his body overboard.

They finally seemed to reach their destination; an unnamed door at the end of a long hallway. The door opened and they unceremoniously shoved Jack in, the door slamming behind him. Jack glanced around, beyond confused. There was a bank of lockers along one end but beyond that the room was empty. A security camera was mounted in the corner, red light flashing. As Jack watched, the little red light went out. That was never a good sign.

The door opened and Jack whirled, fists clenched, to see Brock step in. His hands were cuffed in a similar fashion to Jack’s and he wore the same grey and blue uniform. A beat behind him was Romanoff. She glanced between the two of them, eyes unreadable. “You have your five minutes,” she said to Brock before closing the door behind her.

Jack stood frozen in shock. Brock was the first to move. He closed the distance between them, grabbing the front of Jack’s uniform and smashing their lips together. It was a tad desperate, with teeth nipping and clashing and Jack winced as he felt his lip split and start to bleed again. Brock didn't seem to take notice and Jack didn’t care.

Finally Brock pulled pulled away. “What the hell?” Jack breathed. “Called in a favour with Romanoff,” Brock muttered, reaching a gentle hand to wipe the blood from Jack’s chin. “Hell of a favour,” Jack muttered. He would have asked more but Brock dragged him back into another kiss. Jack relaxed into it before remembering. “They know I’m married,” Jack said, jerking away. “My ring. There wasn’t—,”

“I didn’t have mine,” Brock interrupted calmly. “I hid it in the cabin. They don’t know.” Jack took a breath, the tiniest weight now lifted from his shoulders. He didn't want anyone trying to use one of them against the other. SHIELD had tried before, when they thought Jack and Brock were just good friends. It would be even worse if they knew everything. He and Brock had been careful, hiding any record of their marriage and relationship away in secret. Jack wasn’t sure if Fury had filed anything official, but seeing as he never confronted either of them about their relationship, he doubted it. Fury hadn’t seemed the type to care what they did in their private lives as long as it didn’t affect their work. Romanoff probably knew or at least suspected, especially now, but for some reason Jack wasn’t worried about her.

He stared down at Brock, trying to memorize every inch of his face because Jack wasn’t sure if he’d ever see it again. “You stupid fuck. Why didn’t you run?” Jack muttered. He latched a hand to the front of Brock’s shirt. “Why the hell didn’t you run?” Brock huffed a laugh, though there was really nothing funny. “Because I’m lucky,” he said softly, brushing the tips of his fingers across Jack’s bottom lip. “The man I love decided to love me back. That’s not something you just leave behind.” Jack swallowed around the lump that had risen in his throat. “Poetic,” he said roughly. “Stupid, but poetic. You read that on a cereal box?”

“Hallmark card,” Brock said with a smile. Then he sobered quickly, staring intently up at Jack. So many emotions flickered through those dark eyes that Jack couldn’t even begin to count them all. Brock swallowed, tightening his hand in Jack’s shirt. The muscles in his jaw jumped and Jack longed to smooth the furrowed line between his eyebrows. Brock shook himself out of whatever headspace he’d fallen into, clearing his throat and pulling that trademark smirk that Jack had grown to love.

“Don’t let yourself go in here. I might not love you if you get fat.” Jack couldn't help but laugh at that. He reached up to cup Brock’s face, careful of the cuffs. He kissed him as gently and as sweetly as he could, burning the memory of Brock’s lips into his mind so he would never forget. A knock at the door pulled them back to the present.

“You and me till the end, Jackie boy,” Brock whispered against Jack’s lips before stepping away just as Romanoff stepped in. Brock gave him one last smirk as she led him out to the waiting agents and he disappeared from Jack’s sight.

Jack was led through the rats nest of corridors until finally the agents pushed him through a heavy door into a small, square room. A thick sliding door on the other side opened and the agents lead him a small cell. They un-cuffed him and stepped back as the door slid closed with a swish and a soft thud. Jack took a deep breath, glancing around. There wasn’t much of anything in the cell. A bed was the only visible amenity, the sink and toilet folding into the wall at the touch of a button. The far wall was glass, criss-crossed with thick, metal bars. Beyond it was a large room lined with similar cells, some with occupants and some with not.

Jack took a slow, deep breath as he sat down on the hard mattress. He lay back and closed his eyes, letting his mind drift away to the memories of better times.

 

 


	4. July, 2001: When Jack met Brock Rumlow

Jack followed Assistant Director Shaw through to the halls of SHIELD headquarters. He had just survived a three week evaluation process, filled with everything from gruelling physical challenges to intensive psychiatric evaluations. At the end of it all, he had been accepted as an agent in the counter-terrorism and espionage agency SHIELD. An agency that four weeks ago, he hadn’t even known existed. This morning he had also found out that he had been assigned to the agency’s elite tactical force, designated STRIKE. Needless to say, it’d been an overwhelming month.

“Commander Wallis,” Shaw called out, addressing a stocky, dark haired man with thick tribal tattoos wrapping around his wrists. “Assistant Director Shaw,” the man said in a gravelly voice before turning his attention to Jack. “This the rookie?”

“Sergeant Jack Rollins, meet Jonah Wallis, Commander of STRIKE and leader of Team Alpha.” Jack held out his hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Commander.”

“Army or Marines?” Wallis asked, shaking his hand. “Marines, Sir,” Jack replied. “Figures,” Wallis said, looking him up and down before turning back to the Assistant Director. “I got it from here, Shaw.” With that, he turned and walked down the hall, clearly expecting Jack to follow.

 

He lead Jack through a warren of corridors until he pushed through a door into a dojo-like room with mats laid out across the floor and benches lining the walls. A couple dozen people were scattered about, some sparring while others working with the heavy bags hanging in the corner.

“STRIKE, fall in,” Wallis barked. At once the men and women all stood to attention. “Dawson,” he called. A tall sandy haired man with a scar that dissected his face in half broke away from the group and came over to them. “Meet Jack Rollins, new recruit assigned to your team. Rollins, Lars Dawson, leader of Team Charlie and your new CO.” Dawson shook Jack’s hand. “Rollins.”

“Sir,” Jack replied politely. Wallis nodded to Dawson, before turning on his heels and leaving without another word. “You’ll get used to him,” Dawson said with an easy smile. “Lemme introduce you to the rest of Charlie team.” He led Jack further into the gym, approaching a stocky redhead with a thick covering of freckles.

“This is Xavier Hobbs.” Jack shook hands, not even blinking as the other man did his best to break his fingers. “And that’s Benjamin Griggs,” Dawson pointed to a lean dark haired man sparring with another guy twice his size. He took the knees out from under his opponent before bounding over to shake Jack’s hand. “Welcome to the dysfunctional family,” he said with a smirk.

“Bishop is in medical with a cracked skull. You’ll meet him eventually. I’ll let you get to know everyone else on your own,” Dawson said briskly. “We train here every Monday and Thursday mornings. I expect to see you here.” Jack nodded. “Wednesdays are reserved for target practise at the sixth floor range, although you are encouraged to train on your own time as well. In the mean time,” Dawson continued, raising his voice. “Anyone want to put the rookie through his paces?”

A few people moved to step forward before a voice called out from somewhere in the back. “Oh, I got this.” A chuckle ran through the room, albeit a little nervous sounding. Dawson sighed. “Anyone besides Rumlow?” No one else spoke up and Jack shifted his weight, wondering what the deal was with this Rumlow. “Bloodthirsty animals, the lot of you,” Dawson said drily. “Ok fine. Rumlow, don't break him.” That prompted another chuckle. “I mean it,” the man snapped, obviously not amused. “I don’t want a repeat of Lee’s first day.” He gave Jack a strange look, one that Jack didn’t fully understand, before stepping away.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jack questioned as he toed off his boots and began to warm up. “Rumlow is….,” Griggs scrambled to find the words. “Vicious,” Hobbs drawled. “Yeah, that works,” Griggs replied with a smirk. “He broke Lee’s arm in two places. Guy hadn’t been here three days and was out of commission for a month.” Jack was going to ask more but then a man bounded up onto the mats. Only years of learning to hide his emotions stopped Jack’s jaw from hitting the floor.

  
Dusty tanned skin, most likely from some Italian ancestry, set off dark eyes and even darker hair, which was currently tousled and damp with sweat. Jack longed to run his fingers through it. The man was a few inches shorter than him, all lean and well-defined muscles. The skin-tight black shirt clung to broad shoulders, a well defined chest and a narrow waist.

In short, the man was gorgeous.

On a second inspection, Jack took back every inappropriate thought he had just had. Arrogance rolled off the man in waves, enough to put Jack’s teeth on edge. There was a sharpness to the lopsided smirk that tugged at his lips and those dark eyes sparked with an almost vicious joy at the prospect of beating Jack into the mats. The smirk widened as Rumlow saw Jack’s inspection of him. “What are you waiting for, pretty boy?” Rumlow drawled, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Let’s see whatcha got.” Hobbs shook his head and Griggs clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Nice knowing you,” he said mournfully. Jack kept his face passive as he stepped up on the mats.

Rumlow smirked again, circling around Jack. Jack let him, ignoring the couple feigned jabs the man tossed in his general direction, earning him a murmuring of respect amongst the watching agents. He could already tell what kind of fighter Rumlow was. The man would taunt and play but when he finally did attack, there would be no warning. Jack was a good judge of a person’s fighting style and as usual, he was right. All of a sudden Rumlow lashed out, foot curling up and out towards Jack’s head. Jack dodged back and the fight began.

It was clear that Rumlow was a phenomenal fighter. He was fast and graceful, weaving from move to move effortlessly. Jack kept his core tight and his weight centred, not wanting to give the guy any openings. It seemed like he was holding his own longer than was usual for people who went up against Rumlow. He could hear more murmurings in the crowd and people were exchanging looks even as he and Rumlow exchanged blows.

They were well matched but eventually Jack slipped up. Literally.

His heel skidded on a patch of sweat and Rumlow took advantage. Jack heard a sickening crunch as pain flared in his shoulder and he hit the mats hard. He rolled to his knees, arm clutched against his chest as he kept his eyes on his opponent. “For fucks sake, Rumlow!” Dawson cried from the sidelines. Jack thought he saw a flicker of unease in Rumlow’s eyes before they rolled back in exasperation and he turned to face Dawson’s wrath.

Jack pushed through the haze of pain to feel along his shoulder. Not broken, just dislocated. He took a slow, deep breath as he folded his arm against his body. He wrapped his other hand around the injured arm and twisted. He gritted his teeth as the bones in his shoulder ground together before slipping back into place with a hollow pop. He got to his feet, rolling his shoulders as a cold rage bubbled in his stomach. That fucker was going to pay.

He took easy, measured steps across the mat. The reactions of the watching agents must have tipped Rumlow off because he suddenly spun on his heels to face Jack, but it was too late. Jack got inside his defence and struck the man twice in the gut, winding him. He grabbed Rumlow by that thick, black hair and smashed his knee up into the other man’s face. He heard Rumlow’s nose give way with a satisfying crunch. The fight ended a second later with Jack slamming Rumlow hard into the mats.

The entire gym went silent. “Holy shit,” Griggs finally breathed. Jack stepped off the mats as Rumlow struggled to his knees, gasping like a fish out of water as he tried to force air back into his lungs. Jack paused beside Dawson, prepared for a reprimand, but the man just shook his head. “Rollins, Rumlow, report to medical,” he said with a long-suffering sigh.

As Jack walked across the room, more than a few agents clapped him on his uninjured shoulder in congratulations. Jack glanced back once to see Rumlow slap away the helping hand of another agent, chin completely sleeved in blood. He met Jack’s gaze, eyes hard with anger and embarrassment. Jack sighed as he pushed his way out of the gym. Great. He had made an enemy on his first day.

He garnered the sympathy of the techs upon reaching medical. They were clearly used to patching up the victims of Rumlow’s sparring sessions. When Rumlow pushed his way in, bloody towel held to his face, everyone froze. Rumlow blushed, a red flush creeping up his neck. “What the fuck you all looking at?” He growled as he stalked towards an empty bed. “You did that?” The tech standing next to Jack asked with raised eyebrows. Jack grunted in confirmation, ignoring the way Rumlow was glaring at him from across the room. “Impressive,” the tech said quietly, strapping his arm into a sling. “About time that asshole got a taste of his own medicine.”

 

 

Back in the locker room, Jack unclipped the sling. Useless thing. It was better to get the muscles working again right away, albeit gently at first. He grimaced as he rolled his shoulder carefully, testing his range of motion. He heard the locker door swing open. “Well, it was impressive. I’ll give you that,” said a familiar voice behind him. Jack huffed a harsh sigh, not even bothering to turn around. “Fuck off, asshole,” he growled, tossing the sling into his locker. He really didn't want to deal with this guy right now.

“But I brought you a present,” Rumlow drawled and a moment later something cold and slightly damp slapped down onto Jack’s injured shoulder. He glanced down, startled. He adjusted the ice pack as Rumlow straddled the bench beside him. “Thanks,” he said gruffly, looking up.  
Rumlow sported a large white bandage strapped over his nose. The skin under both eyes was already starting to bruise a dark purple. The guy would have a couple of shiners for a good long while.

“You’re one hell of a fighter,” the man said with a smirk, the broken nose not having dampened his spirits a bit. “Thanks,” Jack said again. Rumlow chuckled, shaking his head. “Not a man of many words, are you?” he teased. Jack just glared. Rumlow raised his hands in a mock surrender. “Peace, man. Let’s start over, okay?” He held out his hand to Jack. “Brock Rumlow. Sorry about the shoulder.”

“Jack Rollins,” he said, returning Brock’s grip. “Not sorry about the nose.” Brock chuckled again. “Fair enough,” he said with that lopsided smirk of his. “I deserved that.” And with that, he walked out, tossing a “See yah around, Rollins,” over his shoulder.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't really find a long enough storyline for the Raft to do this year justice, so I decided to incorporate a few memory flashbacks, as if Jack is daydreaming of better times.


	5. February, 2002: When Jack became friends with Brock Rumlow

  
“Down, down, down!” Rumlow snapped from somewhere behind him. Jack felt a hand latch onto the back of his tac vest and yank him down as a spray of bullets ricocheted overhead. A gurgled cry echoed from behind them, followed by a dull thump. They turned to see the rookie Westlake splayed out on the ground. “Shit,” Rumlow muttered. Jack kept close to the man as they crawled over to the kid.

STRIKE Alpha, which both Rumlow and Jack had been transferred to six months ago, had been paired with another team for this mission and it had gone tits up from the beginning. What should have been a simple recon mission turned into an ambush with the three of them getting separated from the others.

Jack crawled up to the other side of Westlake, grimacing as he clapped his hands on the kids chest to try and stem the bleeding. He knew it was a lost cause. He only half listened to Brock's voice shout into the radio, because he knew there wasn't anyone to help. They lost their air support hours ago and reinforcements were still at least ten minutes out. Without an immediate evac, the kid would bleed out in minutes. Blood was already beginning to pool out from under him and when he coughed, blood bubbled from his lips and spilled down his chin.

  
He looked up to Rumlow as he felt the kid’s life pump out around his fingers. The older man’s eyes were grim, jaw tense as he looked the kid over. Westlake turned his head to look at Jack. “ ‘m gonna die, aren’t I?” The kid gasped, pain laced thickly through his voice. Jack opened his mouth but Rumlow beat him to it. “You’re gonna be fine,” the man said soothingly. He reached out and grabbed one of Westlake’s shaking hands and held it tight.

Jack blinked, startled at the display. Rumlow was not known for his empathy or tact or anything really that resembled basic human decency. Perhaps that was a little harsh but in the two years Jack had known him, the man had never showed a kind side. He was a good soldier, a brilliant fighter, and fiercely protective of those he served with, but he was a complete asshole. He was the kind of man you wanted by your side on the battlefield, not the kind you wanted to hang out with outside of work.

Rumlow spared a glance to Jack. He responded by shaking his head ever so slightly. Rumlow cleared his throat, turning back to Westlake. “We’ll get you outta here in no time. Evac’s on its way. What’s your name, kid?”

“P-Paul,” Westlake gasped, coughing up blood again. “You got a girl waiting for you, Paul?” Rumlow asked. He reached across and grabbed at Jack’s tac vest, digging into one of the pockets. Jack frowned in confusion, but didn't protest. Westlake shook his head as Rumlow pulled out an ABD pad from Jack’s vest. “Now I find that hard to believe,” Rumlow said with a smile too tight around the edges as he used the gauze to wipe the blood from Westlake’s chin. “You’ll have to beat them off with a stick when we get back stateside. Girls love scars.”

Jack listened as Rumlow kept up a gentle murmuring of comforting words until the kid stopped breathing. His eyes glazed over just as gunfire and shouts echoed outside the alley, signalling their reinforcements had arrived. Jack watched as Rumlow reached over and gently closed the kids eyes before picking up his rifle with blood spattered hands and moving to rejoin the rest of STRIKE.

 

 

The flight home was long but Jack quickly gave up on the idea of sleep. Instead he kept a covert eye on Rumlow, watching as the older man sat in stoney silence with dark eyes fixed on the bulkhead in front of him. He never once spared a glance to the black bodybag that lay at the far end of the aircraft and was out and halfway across the tarmac before Jack had done more than unbuckle himself. 

Many hours later, after suffering through a long debrief and an equally long medical evaluation, Jack pushed his way into the locker room at SHIELD headquarters to change. He was so tired that he didn’t notice he wasn't alone until he reached his locker. Rumlow turned, startled at the sound. He turned away just as quickly, keeping his back to Jack. Jack pretended not to notice the man scrub a hand over his face with a shaky-sounding breath. Jack changed quickly. He spared a few looks at the other man, but Rumlow didn't turned around again or acknowledge Jack's presence in any way.

Jack turned to leave but something compelled him to stop. He glanced back over his shoulder to where Rumlow sat hunched in on himself. Jack stifled a groan. He didn’t even like the guy, but Jack couldn’t just leave him like this. Not after the day they just had.

“Hey,” Jack called out. Rumlow flinched, glancing back at Jack with wary eyes. “Was gonna grab a beer at Ray’s, if you wanted to join.” He fiddled with his keys as Rumlow just stared at him. For a moment, he thought Rumlow would refuse but then the man got to his feet. He cleared his throat noisily, shrugging on a leather jacket. “You’re buying,” he said as he shouldered past Jack, that trademark smirk back on his face like nothing was wrong. Jack took a long breath, now left with no choice but to follow.

 

 


	6. September, 2004: When Jack fell in love with Brock Rumlow

Jack wasn’t sure when Rumlow became Brock. All he knew was that one minute he couldn’t stand the guy and the next, he was crashing on his couch after one too many beers more often than not. If asked, Jack would sight Brock’s new Command of STRIKE, snatching the title of youngest commander in SHIELD history, as the changes in the man’s personally that made it easier to be around him. In reality, Jack had just gotten to know the man behind all the masks.

Brock built these massive walls around himself, keeping everyone at arms length with a sharp humour and a scathing tongue. Everyone that is but Jack. It had been a long process to gain that trust, but now Jack wouldn’t lose it for the world. It happened slowly, usually with Brock getting drunk and letting something personal slip out. 

The last big wall came down after a tough mission in which they learned that their target was an abusive asshole with two young children. Jack really wished they hadn’t needed to take the bastard alive. Jack also knew by the pinched look around Brock’s eyes and the way his hand hovered over his sidearm as Blake put the target in handcuffs that it was gonna be bad. He ended up at Brock’s later that night with an empty bottle of bourbon, listening to a drunken confession about deadbeat parents and an abusive foster father that used to beat the shit out of him before Brock was finally removed from the home. Jack had said nothing, just listening as the puzzle pieces that made up Brock Rumlow started to fall into place more clearly.

Jack crashed on the couch, as was per usual after nights like that. The next morning Brock stumbled out of the bedroom as Jack watched the coffee brew, looking haggard and more than a little hungover. He crossed his arms stiffly, staring at his feet nervously. Jack said nothing, just handed him a cup of coffee with that nasty creamer the man seemed to like. Brock took it without a word, refusing to meet Jack’s eyes.

“Breakfast at Ray’s, I suppose?” Jack asked, glancing in the fridge. “You have nothing but mouldy cheese and that disgusting hazelnut creamer.” Brock made a face and began to bitch about Jack’s judgemental tone but the gratitude that sparked in his eyes was more than enough.

 

 

After that night, Jack seemed to have earned Brock’s trust completely. Even in the field, while always consulting with his own Second first, Brock would often look to Jack for quiet confirmation. They worked so well together that Brock sometimes talked about requesting Shultz’s transfer, but never really meant it. Shultz was a good soldier and a good Second and didn’t deserve to be demoted. And then Reykjavik happened.

Jack followed on Brock’s heels, the rest of STRIKE behind him, as the man stormed through the halls of SHIELD Headquarters. He could practically feel the rage radiating from the man and was wholeheartedly thankful that rage wasn’t about to be directed at him. Brock slammed the doors open as he marched into ops. “Commander Rumlow,” a tech said, approaching him a little apprehensively. “How can we—,”

“What the fuck happened?” Brock interrupted, muscles tight with tension. “You must understand—,” the tech tried to explain but Brock rode right over him. “Understand? I understand that your bad intel got my Second killed and two more of my men shot,” Brock growled, voice dangerously quiet as he loomed over the man. “Now, how about you explain to me how the fuck you let that happen?”

Jack stood in stoney silence, hands clasped behind him, as Brock chewed out their tech team for the better part of an hour. Finally, he couldn’t listen anymore and quietly snuck out the back. He checked his weapons, wrote up a mission report that he was sure he’d have to redo, and had a long shower. It was late by the time he made his way to the cafeteria on the fourth floor. He poured himself a coffee and sat at one of the tables at the back. No one was here this late, all the sensible people having already left for the day. Jack just wasn’t ready to go home yet.

He wasn’t sure how long he sat there for, going over the mission again and again in his head. He barely registered the door opening and the footsteps that echoed through the room until Brock was standing right in front of him. The older man sat, setting down two glasses and a bottle of tequila. Without a word he poured them both a generous helping of the clear liquid. “Well, what do you say?” He said as he screwed the top back on the bottle.

Jack glanced up, startled. “What?” He said intelligently. “I want you as my Second,” Brock elaborated, dark eyes staring at Jack intently. “The Director agrees you’re the best choice. So what do you say?” Jack floundered. This wasn’t how he had wanted this to happen. Brock seemed to understand and gave him the time to find his answer. Finally Jack just settled on nodding, not being able to find the right words.

It seemed to be enough for Brock. “Good,” he said, snatching up one of the glasses and motioning for Jack to do the same. “You hate tequila,” Jack said as he picked up his glass. “Yeah, but you don’t,” Brock replied, clinking his glass against Jack’s. “You and me till the end, right?” He drawled before knocking back the whole thing with a grimace. Jack took a slow sip, watching the way the man’s adams apple bobbed as he swallowed. He felt a fluttering in his chest as Brock swiped his thumb across the corner of his mouth. 

Jack stared down at his glass to hide the growing panic that bubbled like acid in his stomach. He knew better. Should know better by now. Fuck, he was in his thirties now and yet that feeling in his chest made him feel sixteen and stupid again. He downed the rest of the tequila, white knuckling the glass to keep his hand from shaking. He swallowed wrong and coughed as the alcohol burned into his lungs. His eyes watered as he tried to control his breathing.

He looked up at the sound of Brock’s chuckle, a rich throaty sound that resonated from deep in the man’s chest. He looked up to dark eyes that sparked with mischief. He looked up to a lopsided smirk that made Jack want to grab the man and pin him against the nearest wall.

Aw, Fuck.

 

 


	7. March, 2006: When Jack kissed Brock Rumlow

Jack exhaled long and slow, letting the hot water beat down on his sore shoulders. He ignored the teasing remarks as the rest of STRIKE grabbed their things and went home. He stayed until his fingertips started to prune, trying to let the water wash away the stress and worry.

It had been two years, two long years, that Jack had nursed growing feelings towards a certain dark haired STRIKE Commander. The last six months especially had been difficult to bare. He didn’t dare act on his feelings. There was no question in that. All he could do was to hide them away and pretend they didn’t exist. He had experience in that at least. He’d had to do it before, for most of his life if he was being perfectly honest. This time however, it was especially painful. So, he had done the only thing he could think of.

He started to spend less time around the team and around Brock.

He had always been quiet, especially in the field, so the others hadn’t noticed when he became even more withdrawn than usual. He had caught Brock giving him questioning looks on more than one occasion, but ignored them. He stopped sparring as much with Brock, asking Blake or Hunter instead. He stopped spending so many nights on Brock’s couch, because waking up to that man stumbling around the kitchen half naked was a special kind of torture.

He shut off the water and towelled himself dry quickly. He wrapped the towel around his hips and was on his way out when a hand grabbed his bicep. Jack barely stopped himself from socking Brock in the face as the man shoved him up against the smooth tile wall. “Jesus,” Jack breathed. “The fuck’s wrong with you?”

“Oh no. No, no, it’s what’s wrong with you,” Brock snapped, crossing his arms over his chest. Jack just shrugged in confusion. “I’ve been patient,” Brock continued. Jack felt pinned by the intensity of the man’s dark eyes. “I figured whatever was going on with you would pass, but now I’ve had enough. So, what’s going on?”

Jack swallowed thickly. “I don’t know what—,” he tried but Brock interrupted. “Don’t bullshit me, Jack,” Brock exclaimed as he stepped closer, poking a finger hard against Jack’s sternum. “What’s going on?” He said again.

Jack said nothing, his heart hammered in his chest. The proximity of the other man made Jack hyper aware of the fact that he was literally wearing nothing but a towel. “For fucks sake, man,” Brock snapped in exasperation. “I’m just trying to—,” Brock was cut off mid sentence as Jack lunged forward and pressed his lips against the shorter man’s.

He felt Brock stiffen and Jack pulled away, horrified. He didn’t even hesitate, he just shoved Brock back and beelined it out of the shower. He wrenched on his jeans with shaking hands. What had he been thinking? That was the problem, he hadn’t been thinking. He just acted, like a complete idiot. Heavy boots echoed behind him.

“Hey!” Jack felt sick as he heard Brock’s voice snap harshly behind him. He flushed hot then cold and practically ran from the locker room, ignoring Brock’s calling after him.

 

  
“Fuck,” Jack said, downing the contents of his glass in one go. He poured another two fingers of the harsh liquor with a hand that shook. He had fucked up. He had fucked it all up. He had been so careful for so long. Being in the military had taught him to hide that part of himself away.

For all that Jack had hated the man on sight, he now trusted Brock completely. While it had taken a long time to gain the trust in return, he knew Brock now felt the same. They had somehow become not only co-workers but friends, good friends. They spent more time together than apart. They worked seamlessly as a team in the field, almost operating like the same person they were that in sink. Even their superiors had commented on it.

And now Jack had fucked it all up. He was going to lose it all because he’d developed feelings and couldn’t control them.

Jack was startled from his musings by a sharp banging on the door. “Rollins,” a familiar voice called from the hallway and Jack felt his stomach drop into the vicinity of his boots. He sat frozen as the banging continued.

“Come on Rollins, I know you’re in there. Let me in,” Brock yelled through the door. Jack didn’t move, couldn’t move. “Don’t make me say what I’ve come to say out here in the hallway. Because I will and I don’t think you’re neighbours would appreciate it,” Brock drawled. Jack took a deep breath, walking stiffly to the door.

He pulled the door open a crack, shoulders hunched forward and eyes on his boots. He was suddenly flung back as Brock shouldered his way inside, kicking the door shut behind him. Hands grabbed Jack by the front of his shirt and slammed him into the wall. The whole place rattled and he heard old Mr. Finch next door curse and throw something at the wall but he didn’t focus on it. He was caught by a pair of dark green eyes that stared into his like they could see straight into his soul. His breath caught in his throat as Brock crowded up against him.

Jack tensed, ready for a fist across his jaw or the cold touch of a gun barrel under his chin.

Instead, he felt a warm hand cup the side of his face, calluses rough against his cheek. He flinched, startled. His hand automatically came up at clasped around Brock's wrist, to hold his hand there or to pull it away Jack didn't know. Jack searched Brock's eyes in confusion, startled at the whirlpool of emotions he saw swirling in them.

The next thing Jack knew, warm lips pressed against his gently, almost hesitantly. It took him a moment but Jack returned the kiss, hesitantly and then with more fever. His hands gently settled on Brock’s hips cautiously and then more assertively when Brock didn’t pull away.

After a moment Brock pulled away, looking up at Jack. He stroked his thumb gently across Jack's cheekbone, his hand still cupping his jaw. “About damn time,” he whispered with that lopsided smirk of his. Jack said nothing. He tangled a hand in Brock’s thick, black hair, dragging the man back into a bruising kiss, determined to wipe that smug look off his face.

 

 

 


	8. April, 2016

Nothing exciting ever happened on the Raft, or if it did Jack didn’t know about it. All the inmates were kept separate from each other, only occasionally passing in the halls when they were individually escorted to showers, medical, or in Jack’s case, the weekly interrogations dubbed as ‘interviews’.

The agent that had been assigned to Jack was named Farrow. He was a grizzled looking man with salt-and-pepper hair and a thick southern twang. Jack liked him. He was no-nonsense and didn’t gloat like the first agent had. Jack had snapped that guy’s wrist during the first week he’d been incarcerated, unable to stand the fucker’s voice a second longer. It had been worth the beating that followed. The agent was immediately transferred and the next day, Agent Farrow was the one to escort him to his weekly ‘interview’.

With no windows and no clocks, it was near impossible to keep track of the days. In the beginning, Jack counted the meals, delivered twice a day. He got to seventy-one days before he gave up. He entertained himself for a while after that by casing the place, but gave up as he quickly realized that escape without outside support was impossible.

The entire time Jack didn’t hear a whisper of news about Brock. He passed other inmates in the hallways on occasion, but never Brock. He didn’t dare ask, lest anyone wonder if his concern about the man ran deeper soldier to fellow soldier. So he kept his mouth shut, hoping for the best and trying not to think about the worst.

The days started to blur together and Jack decided to just let them. Days and nights were indistinguishable anyways so Jack would just lay awake, staring at the ceiling. He felt numb. It was better that way because the less he felt, the easier it was to just get by. He was letting himself slip away, but what else was he supposed to do?

Even Farrow started to worry about him. He went as far as to clap a hand on Jack’s shoulder one afternoon upon returning him to his cell. “You still in there, kid?” He asked gruffly. When Jack said nothing, the man gave him a shake. “ ’m not your kid,” Jack muttered, shrugging Farrow’s hand away, his voice rough with disuse. “Thank fuck for that,” Farrow said flatly. Jack glanced up, startled. “I’d have to tan yer hide somethin’ awful if you were.” Without another word, Farrow stepped out and the cell door slide closed behind him, leaving Jack staring dumbly after him.

 

It wasn’t until November that Jack really came alive again. He knew it was November because they asked about his sister’s birthday. He was in another one of those useless interrogations with some agent yapping at him like always, except this time was different. This time the man got personal. “What about your sister? Jenny, right?” the man said, consulting the files in front of him. Jack’s eyes snapped up from where they had been staring blankly at his cuffed hands. The man looked smug for having finally gotten a reaction out of him. “It’s her birthday tomorrow isn't it? I also hear she just got engaged. Wouldn’t it be nice to be able to congratulate her yourself? I can arrange phone privileges.”

The man leaned forward when Jack said nothing, feeling far too comfortable around Jack. That was their second mistake. They had gotten used to him being complacent. They hadn’t even bothered to cuff him to the table. That was their third mistake.

“This can go both ways, Agent Rollins. Your sister associated with known terrorists for years. All it would take is a single phone call and she’s in here right along side—,” his words ended in a squawk as Jack grabbed him by the front of his fancy suit. He hauled the man across the table and slammed him into the wall.

“You fucking touch my family and I’ll rip you apart,” he growled as guards swarmed through the door.

They pulled him away from the terrified suit and a bamstick was jammed into his ribs. His muscles seized as electricity cracked through his body. It took two more guards with bamsticks before his knees finally cracked against the floor and his vision darkened around the edges.

Jack couldn’t be sure, but he could have sworn Farrow looked a little happier as he and four other agents led him back to his cell. He waved the others off as he swiped his card across the scanner and opened the door. “Welcome back, kid,” he muttered quietly as he un-cuffed Jack’s hands. “They threatened my family,” Jack growled, that black rage shaking him fully awake for the first time in months.

“That was their first mistake.”

 

 

  
Jack was shaken from his nap by the familiar swish sound of the door opening. “Let’s go, Rollins,” Farrow said, sounding just as bored as he looked. Jack got to his feet with a sigh. “Again?” He asked as he always did. This weekly exchange was practically scripted by now. Farrow shrugged. “Don’t ask me. I just do as I’m told.” He said as he always did. Jack stood patiently as Farrow and an agent Jack hadn’t met before snapped the heavy cuffs around his wrists. “Haven’t seen you before,” he said to the new agent. To his amusement, the young man flinched at the sound of his voice, eyes darting every which-way. “That’s Dunaway,” Farrow said. “He’s new. Be nice.”

“I’m always nice,” Rollins chuckled, making Dunaway swallow nervously. He wondered what the kid had heard about him, or if it was just the general terror of working at this maximum security prison, reserved for the worst of the worst criminals on the planet.

He waited until the kid had a hand on his bicep to lead him out before literally snapping at the kid, teeth clicking menacingly. What could he say, prison was boring. He had to create his own entertainment.

He didn’t even come close to the kid, but Dunaway still jumped about a foot sideways, hand scrambling for the bam-stick on his belt. “Stand down, Dunaway,” Farrow said with a sigh. “Behave,” he scolded, taking a hold of Jack’s arm himself. Rollins chuckled again and let Farrow lead him from his cell, leaving Dunaway to follow behind.

Jack let Farrow and Dunaway lead him into the small interrogation room, chaining him to the table. He zoned out for the next hour and a half, staring blankly at the agent sitting across from him. They were really just going through the motions now and they both knew it. Neither expected the other to bring anything new to the table and after the time allotted had passed, the agent packed up his things and Farrow and Dunaway came back to retrieve him.

As they rounded a corner, they were greeted by the alarming sight of three agents sprawled unconscious in the corridor. “What the…,” Dunaway said, glancing around nervously. “Okay Rollins, back to your cell,” Farrow said in a hushed voice. Jack had a split second to make a decision. He’d never have another chance like this again. 

He grabbed Dunaway and smashed the kid’s forehead into the bulkhead. He let the unconscious agent fall to the ground, grabbing the kid’s bamstick as he turned on Farrow. The man watched him calmly, his own bamstick held lightly in front of him. “Don’t be stupid, kid,” he said, adjusting the grip on his baton.

“I’ve got nothing to lose,” Jack drawled, circling closer to the other agent.

“I can’t just let you walk out,” Farrow challenged, shifting his stance subtly. “I wouldn’t expect you to,” Jack replied before lunging forward. Farrow got a few good hits in, almost bringing Jack to his knees by cracking his bamstick across his back. Jack was at the disadvantage of having his hands cuffed together, but he was faster and better trained.

The fight ended with Jack gently easing Farrow’s unconscious body to the ground before fishing out the key to his cuffs. He double-checked Farrow’s pulse, feeling it thrum strongly under his fingers before he snatched up the man’s keycard and took off down the hall.

He knew these corridors by heart now and headed to the closest command centre. He ducked through the open door carefully, greeted by the sight of unconscious agents and soldiers, sprawled around cracked and shattered computers. Jack headed to the only terminal still working and began flipping through cell security feeds. His eyebrows shot up as a familiar face popped up on screen. What the hell was Barton doing incarcerated on the Raft? 

Now was not the time to figure that puzzle out and Jack continued scanning through the feeds until he found the one he was looking for.

 

 

Moments later and Jack was swiping Farrow’s keycard on a cell door three levels away from his own. The door slide open and Jack’s breath caught in his throat as the dark haired man inside sat up on the bed, eyes wide and startled. Jack stared back numbly, just taking in the sight of him. He looked tired, the skin under his eyes bruised dark, but otherwise he looked perfect.

“Jack?” Brock breathed, slowly getting to his feet. “We gotta go,” Jack said, forcing his feelings aside for the moment. They had to move. Brock blinked and stepped out of the cell into the hallway, looking dazed. 

"What-," he began but never got further then that. Jack grabbed the front of Brock's shirt and yanked, pulling the shorter man into a bruising kiss. Brock's hands gripped his elbows as Jack slide a hand to cup the back of his husband's head. The kiss turned from sloppy and demanding to gentle before Jack drew back reluctantly.

He stared down at Brock, a little breathless. Brock's pupils looked blown in the dimly lit hallway. "We gotta go," Jack said again, voice rough with emotion. "Yeah, okay," Brock said. "Okay," he said again, shifting into soldier mode right before Jack's eyes. "Lead the way." Jack nodded before turning towards what he hoped was the helipad he had seen on the security cameras.

They carefully made their way through the corridors, passing more unconscious agents and soldiers alike. Jack was getting tired of turning corners and encountering surprises. He really shouldn't have been surprised when they rounded a corner and stared down the hallway and none other than Steve Fucking Rogers. Behind him was Barton and Wilson and a few others that Jack didn’t recognize.

Both parties stared at the other, neither knowing how to react. Jack shifted his weight, glancing at Brock out of the corner of his eye. Rogers was eyeing Brock something fierce, hands clenched into fists by his side. Jack wondered who would blink first, but they never found out. Three soldiers burst out into the hallway. They didn’t see Jack or Brock, eyes alighting on Rogers and his group. “Freeze!” One man cried nervously, raising his weapon with a hand that shook. The others followed suit and this could only end in someone getting shot.

They could have run. The smart thing would have been to run. Jack and Brock exchanged a look. Jack flicked his eyes to the guards and back. Brock’s nod was barely discernible before they both reacting as one.

Brock kicked out one soldier’s knee, catching his arm and yanking it up as the man’s gun went off. The bullet pinged off the ceiling as Jack grabbed the second man by the scruff of the neck, kicking the third in the head with the heel of his boot. That soldier crumpled as Jack threw the second agent into the wall as Brock tossed his agent to the ground with a heavy thump. Jack tossed over the baton which Brock caught with ease. He spun the baton in a lazy circle before cracking it down on the back of the last soldier’s head.

Jack glanced down the hallway in time to see the others disappearing around the corner. Only Rogers remained. He spared one last place at the two of them before disappearing around the corner.

“You good?” Jack asked, turning to Brock. The man had a thin trickle of blood coming from the corner of his mouth but his eyes were bright and alive and he was right in front of Jack. “Fucking fantastic,” he said, grinning like a maniac.

 

 

Jack had never been more thankful for his pilot’s licence as he and Brock made their way to one of the two helicopters currently sitting on the Raft’s helipad. Brock yanked the pilot out of the front, knocking him unconscious as Jack jumped in and started pre-flight. Within moments they were in the air. “Okay, what the fuck—,” Brock began, adjusting the copilot headset but Jack cut him off. “Love to chat, but let’s do it when we’re safely on the ground and I’m not concentrating on remembering how to fly a helicopter, hmm?” Brock snorted and wisely shut up.

A few hours later, as the helicopter was just beginning to run out of fuel, Jack set it down in an empty field a few miles outside of a small town he couldn’t have named if his life depended on it. They yanked the blue scrub like shirts off, opting for the less prison-like grey long sleeves underneath. Jack was rummaging around in the back of the cabin, seeing if there was anything on board that might be useful, when a hand grabbed his bicep and yanked him out the side door.

He stumbled, falling against Brock’s chest before being pushed back against the side of the helicopter. Jack grunted as his head smacked against the side window but then Brock’s lips were on his. 

He wrapped an arm around Brock’s waist, tangling a hand in his dark hair. After a moment Brock moved to pull away, but Jack chased after him. Brock chuckled against his lips before returning the kiss.

“I missed you,” Jack murmured, brushing his nose against Brock’s. “Clearly,” Brock chuckled. He brushed a few stray hairs out of Jack’s face. He searched Jack’s face intently before his face broke into a dazzling smile. It wasn’t that trademark smirk of his, not this time. This was a genuine smile, completely open with nothing held back.

“I missed you too,” Brock said quietly before pulling Jack back into another kiss.

 

 


	9. November, 2016

  
Jenny kept a smile on her face as she thanked yet another distant relative of Ryan’s as they extended their congratulations on their way out. She just wanted to get out of these shoes. And this dress. As magnificent as it was in white lace and silk, it had a built-in corset that made her feel like her internal organs were being rearranged. Beyond the constant faint feeling however, the day had been perfect. 

Well, almost perfect.

Ryan caught her eye and winked and she couldn't help but smile, really smile. Not the pleasant smile she had been putting on for the guests. She could tell Ryan was just as tired as she was. Both would have preferred a smaller wedding but Ryan’s mother couldn't be stopped. She had paid for everything, transforming the massive ballroom in this swanky hotel into a winter wedding wonderland.

Jenny lost track of Ryan for a while before a hand settled on her hip and a gentle breath tickled her ear. “You think anyone would notice if we just…snuck out?” He said softly. Jenny felt a little thrill and struggled to keep her face straight. There was a benefit to having the honeymoon suite at the same hotel as the reception. “I’ll leave now and you follow in ten minutes to avoid suspicion,” she said quietly as she downed the last of her champagne.

The first thing she did upon reaching the honeymoon suite was to kick off those godforsaken shoes. She flopped back onto the bed with a sigh, closing her eyes. It had been a wonderful whirlwind of a day. The day had been made a little bittersweet by the absence of one particular person.

 

Jenny knew her brother wasn’t dead. She knew because he had sent a message almost year ago. It came in the form of an old photograph, the one of their mother cooking over the stove. She was glad he wasn’t dead, but life imprisonment for treason at some undisclosed location wasn’t much better. She had to find that detail out from her busy-body co-worker who refused to speak to her after asking how it felt to have a traitor in the family.

She still wasn't sure how to process the knowledge that her brother had been a part of a secret society hellbent on overthrowing the world. She had known him her whole life. He liked photography and stargazing. He was scared of needles and hated anchovies. No matter what he did, he was still her big brother who used to scare the monsters out from under her bed.  

When Jack joined the military, it was as if her world had ended. And when he finally came back home, for the first time in four years, he was so different. He had become withdrawn and silent. The fun-loving, teasing side of her brother was gone. He was gone for a long time.

And then he met someone.

He didn't tell her, but he didn’t have to. She could tell. One day, when he called her at Christmas during yet another year that he didn’t make it home, there was this lightness to his voice she hadn’t heard in a very long time. He actually teased her, in that soft manner like he had used to. 

And then she finally got to meet the man her brother had fallen in love with, she hadn't liked him. It wasn't that he was a man _._ That hadn't really been a surprise, even. She had always suspected. There had been a few things through high school and as she got a bit older, she began to connect the dots.

No, what Jenny didn't like about Brock Rumlow was the arrogant air he had about him, coupled with a hard edge to his eyes that Jenny found unsettling. To be fair, they first met under less than ideal circumstances, but first impressions were important and Jenny was not impressed. 

Jenny changed her mind about Brock Rumlow when Jack had come back for their mother’s funeral and brought the man with him. It had been late in the day, the funeral long over and most everyone who had come back to the homestead now gone. Jenny was exhausted. Jack had long since disappeared, leaving her to deal with the guests. After saying goodbye to the last well-wishers, she trudged back into the kitchen with a heavy step. The last thing she wanted to do was dishes but it couldn't be helped. Better to get it done now then have to do it in the morning.

She pulled up short as she stepped into the kitchen, watching in shock as Brock set the last serving dish in the rack to dry, his black dress shirt rolled up to the elbows. The kitchen looked spotless. He gave her a small, almost shy smile as he dried his hands and headed upstairs in search of Jack.

Later that night, as Jenny headed past Jack’s old bedroom, she heard a gentle murmur through the partially open door. She peaked into the warmly lite room and was surprised for the second time that day.

Jack was curled up in bed next to Brock, eyes closed and breathing even. The older man was reading aloud from a book as he gently carded his fingers through Jack’s hair. Jenny watched for a while, leaning on the doorframe. Jack twitched in his sleep and Brock glanced down, a small smile tugging at his lips.

In that instance, in the way he looked at her brother, Jenny's opinion of the dark haired man completely changed. 

 

 

A knock at the door startled her from her memories. She frowned. Ryan had a key, he wouldn’t just knock. She got up with a sigh. She just hoped it wasn’t her new mother-in-law. She had a strained relationship with the woman. They got along well, but she was a bit overbearing and all Jenny wanted right now was a little peace and quiet.

She glanced out of the peephole. No one was there. She opened the door, looking both ways down the hallway. Nothing. Just as she was retreating back into the suite, she caught sight of a small package tied with a white silk ribbon at her feet.

She brought the package into the room, curiously sliding off the ribbon. She set the box on the table and opened the lid, revealing white tissue paper. She peeled back the tissues to reveal an old black-and-white-photo, nestled in a simple frame.

A young woman, hair falling in wisps from a messy bun, sat in a beat up old rocking chair. In her arms was a little girl, about six years old. The woman had a gentle smile as she looked down at the girl. Jenny sucked in a sharp breath, bushing shaky fingers gently across the photo. She barely registered the door opening. “What’s this?” Ryan asked as he peered over her shoulder.

“It’s me,” Jenny said softly. “And my mom.”

“Beautiful,” Ryan said with a smile and a kiss on her cheek. “Whose it from?” Jenny shook her head. “I don’t know. It was just left at the door.”

“Is there a card?” Ryan asked as he undid his cufflinks, wandering over to the bathroom.

Jenny carefully set the photo aside and rummaged through the tissue. She finally found a blank envelope tucked against the bottom of the box. She opened it, pulling out a postcard. A breathtaking white-sand beach was depicted on the front, the words _Indonesia_ stamped bolding along the bottom.

She frowned and flipped it over, finding it blank except for the words _For Miss Carter_ written in a familiar, slanted handwriting.

Jenny’s breath caught in her throat. As a child she had idolized Peggy Carter, wanting nothing more than to grow up to be just like her. When she was very little,  Jack would tell her stories, making up wild adventures where Peggy Carter saved Captain America and Bucky Barnes from the evil clutches of HYDRA. He would call her Miss Carter just to tease her. 

“Anything?” Ryan said, leaning out from the bathroom. “Uh, no. No card,” Jenny called as she hid the postcard under the tissue. “Probably my aunt not wanting to make a fuss.” Ryan made a noise in acknowledgement and ducked back into the bathroom. Jenny turned back to the photo, a knowing smile tugging at her lips.

Now the day was perfect.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who has been reading the series and leaving comments! The feedback has been fantastic! Stay tuned for the next year! Fair warning, it'll tug something fierce at the heartstrings, but we will get to see the return of many a favourite character (*cough*James*cough*Hunter*cough*)


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